Chapter 5
Conor
The girl is a mess. She has calmed down some, the fight draining out of her. Her hair is long and dark, hanging down her back in tangles. There is dried blood everywhere. Her face, if clean, would have been smooth. Her skin seems flawless. But it is her eyes that first catch my attention. They are amber. They are terrified. They are tinged red.
"Try breathing in and out slowly. I hear that helps," I suggest as Emma struggles weakly.
Her eyes roll up, watching me with enough bottled up anger and distrust to take out a small country. The color of her irises keeps dancing between amber and scarlet. It is disconcerting mainly because I know only one kind of creature whose eyes change depending on their level of emotion. And, until recently, I had been intent on killing them all.
Emma thrashes weakly, her lips moving against my hand.
"Calm down, and I'll uncover your mouth."
I am being as patient as I can, but I am getting tired and irritable. The quick, lightning speed flight from France a little after five to a time zone six hours behind, and an unexpected hand-to-hand brawl with three grotesque hellions has taken its toll. Between Will and me, it hadn't taken much to discharge the trio, but I had taken a nice hit to my arm. The electric energy I'd been attacked with had damaged a nerve, and I am feeling sharp, shooting pains down my shoulder and into my back. The girl's thrashing isn't helping.
"Ipoooommmmiii."
She speaks against my hand, her head nodding almost frantically. I am pretty sure she's saying, "I promise," but even if she isn't I'm willing to take the risk. Having two arms to support her is ideal right now. I pull my hand away.
"My mother?"
She whispers it, but I hear it anyway. The question throws me. It isn't the standard first inquiry by people we Extract. Most people make instant "where are you taking me" demands. I respect her concern for her mother. I am extremely close to my own family.
"Sweetheart, your mom is fine. She's safe."
Emma shakes her head, her eyes wide and terrified. Her pupils are dilated. I don't understand her fear, can't comprehend why life in general seems to scare her so much.
"She's not safe. You don't understand. You're killing her!"
She starts to thrash again, and I grit my teeth against the resulting pain. It is getting easier to manage, my body healing it slowly, but it still hurts like hell. My arm loosens as a particularly violent kick causes the muscles in my arm to spasm. I swear as I rush to use my other arm to brace Emma.
"She is safe. S-A-F-E! But you're going to get yourself killed if you don't work with me here!"
Emma quits thrashing, her shoulders suddenly trembling with tears.
"I'm all she has now. My father is gone. She has lived for me after his death. For me! You. Are. Killing. Her."
I don't know how to respond to this. I have seen Emma's records. I know her father died of Lung cancer. I didn't count on her having a close relationship with her mother.
My own father passed away when I was an infant, but while my mother and I are close, she has also given part of herself to her work. It helps her live, gives her a reason to get past the pain of grief. Gargoyles are all about duty and family. We are split between the two. Sometimes I forget how the real world works. Even my closest friends aren't bound completely to their families.
I look down at Emma, at the back of her neck, at the way she reaches up to rub bloody tears from her cheeks. I am a gargoyle. I have the ability to turn to stone, but I'm definitely not made from rock.
"We have people who help the families of those we Extract. She will be okay, Em. I . . . I'll allow you a phone call when I can."
It isn't a promise I should make, but I make it anyway. The words calm her. Not completely, but enough that she becomes reasonably still.
"I'm going insane. I'm dying, and I just don't know it."
She is talking to herself, and it's obvious she thinks she is hallucinating. I can't blame her for that. One moment she's safe inside a hospital, the next she's bear hugging a therapist then being taken against her will by gargoyles. If I was even half mortal, I'd think myself pretty damn crazy too.
"What can I do to make you understand this isn't a dream? You aren't dying. You aren't even sick."
I ask her this softly, carefully. She is like a cornered animal, spitting and snarling until it grows too weary to lash out. But this doesn't mean she's any less dangerous. She doesn't know it yet, but she is powerful. Very powerful.
She tilts her head back, her eyes meeting mine before looking away. She is trying to hold my gaze and can't. But she keeps her head up, and I watch as she fights with herself. She is tall for a girl, her head stopping just under my chin.
"I don't know . . ." she answers. "What can you do?"
The play of emotions on her face is mesmerizing even under the layers of grime. She is so emotional and yet so guarded. I can read every emotion, but I can't for the hell of me figure out what they mean or what she is thinking.
"I'd ask you to trust me, but I figure that's pointless. I can tell you what I am. I can even tell you what you are. The believing it part will have to come with time."
She seems to consider this.
"Y-you said you were a gargoyle. Like those statues on Notre Dame?"
She is playing along. For this, I am grateful.
"Somewhat. We are creatures created by the Heavens to guard against evil. Our lives are dedicated to this singular cause. Over the years, gargoyles have multiplied. We are family oriented, each family broken down by crests. We marry only our own race. Females take the crests of their husbands. We all serve the cause. We have the ability to turn to stone. Some of us have the ability to change shape, species even, such as Roach. We live a long, long time but we are not immortal. In the end, we are given a choice at death. Pass on or sacrifice ourselves for the cause. The ones who choose sacrifice turn forever to stone on their building of choice. In this form, they can forever communicate with us, to warn us when there is danger in their area. They also ward off evil."
I am being long winded, rambling even, but I need her to understand that we aren't a danger to her. And even this explanation is a condensed version. Gargoyles are complicated. Our lives, initiations, crests, and powers are something that takes years to learn. I still don't know it all.
"It doesn't sound real."
I smile.
"No . . . no, it doesn't. But, you must admit, it's too outlandish to be fake."
She doesn't smile in return, but I feel some of the apprehension in her body melt away.
"You don't know me well. I have a wild imagination."
I laugh at that, and she tenses again. I don't apologize.
"The only thing I know about you is what I've seen on paper. But, I promise, I know more about you than you do."
She frowns, and I know this unnerves her.
"You said I wasn't sick?"
So, she caught that. Good.
"No, you're not. Symptoms like yours are fairly normal for creatures like you. Fever is a given. The phobias I'm still trying to figure out."
She actually manages to tense more. If that be possible.
"Creatures like me?"
"Yes, creatures like you."
"And what would that be exactly?"
I prime myself for her reaction, tightening my arms, preparing to re-cover her mouth if the need arises.
"Hybrids," I answer. "Half-Demon, half-mortal children."
She surprises me again. Instead of screaming, instead of thrashing, she laughs. Laughs!
"Now I know you're lying!" she says, her words broken by giggles. I just shake my head and cock a brow.
"Oh, you'll see, sweetheart. It won't be an easy thing to accept, but you'll be forced to."
She grows still, her face a contorted battle between laughter and thought.
"Where are you taking me?"
Now that is a question I am prepared to answer.
"Right now? My home. It's a close safe haven. After that . . . well, you'll see."
If she thinks she's dreaming, it's the best answer I can give her. If telling her she is a hybrid Demon makes her laugh, telling her about the Acropolis will only result in a nice guffaw.
"And you'll let me call my mother there?"
She isn't going to let me forget my promise. We aren't supposed to allow hybrids contact with family, but I am willing to bend the rules. If for no other reason than to calm her, to force her to view this whole mission as reality.
"I'm not crazy, you know? I'm not weak," she defends.
I have been quiet for too long, leaving her question hanging unanswered between us. I look down at her messy hair, her even messier face. Her eyes are still dilated but no longer red. She won't meet my gaze. She shies away from everything. It seems weak. It looks weak, but I am the one holding her, and I know better. I know what she is going to have to face.
"It would be better if you were crazy. Crazy is easier. But weak? I don't see weakness."
She seems surprised by this observation, and she glances quickly at my face, her eyes staying longer than usual before looking away.
"What do you see?" she asks, her voice low and trembling.
I watch as Roach looks back at us, his reptilian eyes narrowed, his forked tongue shooting out rapidly. He is annoyed. I can't see Will, but I know he is shaking his head. I am such a glutton for punishment. I have always had a thing for wounded animals—a natural urge to protect the defenseless.
"I see a girl about to be faced with the biggest trial in her life. Maybe she will be overcome with the fire this knowledge will bring. Maybe she will burn, but I also see a girl that will rise out of the ashes, stronger. Powerful."
Emma shivers.
"You don't know me," she whispers.
I didn't disagree.
"No, I don't."